


If

by thehatpile



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cardiophilia, Facials, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Oral Sex, Scent Kink, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 01:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11429964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehatpile/pseuds/thehatpile
Summary: Dave touches a sleeping Dirk while reminiscing about his deceased, incestuous brother.





	If

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I'll just go right ahead and say that Dirk won't wake up and he also isn't unwillingly drugged, he is on sleep meds that he takes himself.
> 
> 2) The BroDave happened when Dave was underage, but since it's not the main pairing I chose to not tag it separately. It's also up to your personal interpretation/imagination/preferences to decide how abusive Bro was.
> 
> 3) This is my first published fic, you can also find it on my tumblr @sekamehu.

You look at Dirk as he sleeps peacefully. When you were younger, the times when Bro slept were among the rare occasions when you could look at him, study him, without being questioned. That weirdo tended to sleep with his shades on (as apparently does Dirk, too), so you were not always sure if he was actually awake or not. Besides, he was a light sleeper, just like you are. He woke up easily, so you had to be really careful not to get caught staring at him when he had nodded off on the couch. Such mishaps could be excused when you were still just a little twerp, but as you grew older, you decided it's best to leave sleeping Bros lie, just like any healthy human being would do.

This younger version of your Bro, this Dirk, however, is a different story. After gaining a better control of his splinters, he's been sleeping considerably more than what he used to, or at least that's what he tells you. According to what he's shared, he didn't really sleep at all during the past few years, and apparently, he and his dreamself were often awake at the same time. It's beyond you how he managed that, and as Dirk put it, in truth, it wore him out in the end. After beating Sburb, each of you has had time to reflect, to recharge, to heal. Everybody's dealing with their personal problems and conflicts now that the universe is not at stake anymore, some of you retreat from others to think in peace, some are more eager to seek the opinions of others. You, you're still collecting the pieces of your past and slowly arranging them so that the picture of your psyche would make sense again. He, he sleeps, both on his own accord and sometimes with the assistance of medication. You don't blame him, after living this messed up half-life through a dozen of splints, in a constant state of hyper-awareness to boot, it might be a bit difficult to just lie down and magically start sleeping normally. You still take some melatonin yourself, but you've been trying to leave it out. Some nights you succeed, some nights you don't. But it's okay, it'll be alright in time. Dirk has actual meds, not just some petty hormones that sometimes do and sometimes don't work. Shattering glass would not wake him up when he's really out. He doesn't really react to touch, either, not when he's right in the middle of his chemically induced slumber.

And so, you've been watching him. Sleeping. Creepy? Most definitely. But who gives a damn, you're a literal god of the universe, along with seven other shitheads, including him. Infallible logic, indeed, but at least he won't wake up. You can stare at him all you like, and he won't be disturbed. You can bring your face right up to his, you can blow air on his cheek, and nothing. This new sense of security is what really weirds you out because nothing like this had ever been possible with Bro. And being the curious, peeping little shit that you are deep down, that certain feeling of power over him might have started feeling a bit too compelling. You push away any thoughts of uncertainty, insecurity and remorse as you slide his shades off, adrenalin suddenly surging forward at the act that holds certain intricate and obscure significance to you. You take a deep breath in an attempt to still your lightly trembling hands. You fold his shades up and place them neatly on the bedside table. With the slightest bit of hesitation, you sit on the edge of his bed.

He's sleeping on his back this time, head turned slightly to the side, one hand stretched beside him, and another resting on his stomach. His attire, that worn-out sleeveless top and some black boxers. No blanket, it's really hot anyways. When compared to Bro, he actually looks like he's out like a light, which boosts your confidence. Even when he legitimately slept, Bro always had a slightly furrowed brow which made him look intimidating despite his technically vulnerable position. Dirk, he's got zero idea what's happening around him, he's wide open. Relaxed, unaware, no shields up. You scoot a little closer, and lie down next to him. From this close you can smell him, the hair product he uses, his bodyspray, and even under all that, the slight, warm scent of his sweat. A flush creeps it's way up your cheeks, your chest feels tight.

It's fascinating to you how peaceful his face looks right now. This guy is definitely unconscious, no doubt about it. You notice he's more freckled than you'd previously seen. His cheeks, the bridge of his nose. His shoulders, collarbones, arms... He's just as freckled as Bro was. Of course, you've got those little sun-kissed spots too, but he's got a whole lot more of them. He's very pale-skinned, just like you are, as opposed to the barely-there tan Bro had. You bring a hand to his face, swipe your fingers gently across his cheek. Soft, warm. He's got quite the handsome face, and unlike Bro, he's almost... _cute._ Bro was never “cute”. Sure, he was dashing, at least according to that squeeing horde of clubber girls he had a following of. Dirk, he's got the same basic features as Bro had, his strong cheekbones, a sharp jawline, the same slightly slanted eyes... His nose is different. Bro's nose had a noticeable bump on it, he said he'd broken it when he was younger. Dirk's nose looks quite straight, and that's probably what Bro's nose would've looked like if he hadn't gotten socked in the face in his teens.

His hair is roughly the same, too, in the way it is a carefully calculated combination of just-woke-up shagginess and animesque styling. ...Except, now that you think about it, Bro's hair was messier than Dirk's, but the color is still the same swishy straw blond. You move your hand to stroke his hair, it's softer than you'd anticipated, but just as thick. It feels unexpectedly nice to the touch, so you pet it some more, slowly, burying your fingers in the soft strands, taking in the texture. You're careful not to accidentally pull on his hair. Pull... You could do it. It's not like he would, or could, kill you for it, unlike his older incarnation. Would a fistful of his hair feel just as good in your hand as Bro said yours did in his?

After a good minute or two of appreciating his luxuriously smooth hair, you cautiously stretch out your arm to rest it on his chest. His sleep remains undisturbed, and your arm, supported by his toned but somewhat narrow chest, moves in time with his calm breaths. You nuzzle your face against his shoulder and sigh with a slight waver in your exhale. Nerves.

_“Chill, Dave. Striders keep it cool. Make Bro proud.”_

Words echo in your mind like a mantra, an automated string of phrases that has been rooted in your brain longer than you've been able to form stable memories. There's no way in hell your subconscious will stop reminding you of the utmost importance of keeping one's composure to earn the respect of an older sibling. There's also no way in hell Bro would be giving you the raised thumb of brotherly approval, no matter how cool you chilled it, for copping a feel of a sleeping person that's technically _him_ , albeit ten years younger and from a parallel universe. On the other hand, he's not there to see you fail either, so, from the perspective of your subconscious, you've got nothing to lose. Warped as it sounds, going by that logic makes you calm down considerably.

Eventually, the arm that's been sandwiched between your bodies starts to feel numb, so you have to think of a new position if you want to be comfortable whilst touching your unconscious brother. As risky as it is, you decide to straddle him, placing an unhealthy amount of trust on the sedatives circulating in his blood. Dirk really doesn't seem to mind having some extra pounds sitting on top of him, he doesn't mind if said extra pounds are feeling up his chest, and maybe, very subtly, are also rubbing their apparent hard-on against his hips. Strong stuff, those pills. It actually takes you some effort to keep your breathing steady and slow, equally due to keeping your bubbling panic in check, and intense arousal. You're really starting to move on to a territory of things that cannot be easily explained if he were to suddenly wake up.

The warnings your subconscious is trying to shout at you are drowned out and ignored when your hands find their way to the hem of his shirt. You move his hand that has been resting on his stomach until now and place it gently beside him. It didn't really hit you how completely limp he actually is, not until you felt the relaxed heaviness of his arm. Limbs like a puppet's, the muscles won't tense up and the fingers won't curl around yours. Whether he stays still or moves, what position he's in, it's all up to you. He's effectively under your control. Did Bro feel like this too? After all, wasn't his obsession with those inanimate dolls all about control? Living with Bro had taught you to give yourself up voluntarily rather than wait for him to take action himself. Your mouth was Bro's to kiss, and your body was his to touch. You let him believe you gave all of yourself to his hands willingly, since he would go easier on you if you didn't put up a fight. Bro could be deceivingly gentle if you didn't protest. One wrong move, though, and all careful caresses and loving kisses would be gone. You learned to let it happen, learned to find pleasure in it, learned let him do what he wanted without objecting to it. He'd praise you if you were good. You are _not_ being good right now, but he is not here. It's you who gets to decide what's good and what's not.

You lift the hem of Dirk's tank top, exposing a set of well-toned abs, and a happy trail just as blonde as his hair peeking over the waistband of his boxers. You smooth a hand over the relaxed muscles and can't help but stare in admiration. You stroke along the lines of his stomach, open palm caressing slowly and gently, fingers tracing the edges of his abdominals. Your thumb circles gingerly around his navel, softly pressing into it from time to time. You exhale heavily, a quiet groan emerging from your chest. Your face is flushed, and your palms are starting to sweat.

Your hands eventually move to his chest, and your breathing picks up pace when you feel the steady beating of his heart against your palms. It's hard to make sense why you're almost choking on your own breaths, but the way he is so exposed that you can just press your hand on his chest and feel his heart is driving you mad. His heart is _right there_. Just a couple of inches are separating your hand from the relentlessly pumping muscle that keeps him alive. If only it was possible to dip your hand through the skin and under his ribs, to cup his heart and feel it flutter, squeezed in your firm hold, restrained and controlled. Your eyes are fixated on his neck, or more specifically, on his carotid pulse. It stands out spectacularly with his head turned to the side. You're suddenly aching to feel it, and your fingers curl around his throat, his relaxed pulse beating right beneath your fingers. You don't really get closer to another human being than feeling their heartbeat. You could barely lay a finger on Bro when you strifed, that man was completely out of your reach. He was always far away, always a few flash steps ahead of you, and if he was ever behind you, it was for the sole purpose of delivering a swift kick on your ass. On the mental side there were his mind games, wrapped under layers and layers of his “irony”. That is, if the definition of irony was “disturbingly twisted, nonsensically manipulative bullshit”. At times it felt like he wasn't really a human at all.

But Dirk, he is very human. _Scarily human._

He would suffocate if you choked him.

And he would bleed if you slit his throat.

You look at his pale but shapely lips, which happen to be very slightly and _very_ invitingly parted. Though the “invitingly” part might just be your arousal messing with you. Just one little peck wouldn't hurt, right?

Right.

You close the distance between your faces with a soft, tentative kiss, barely going beyond just letting your lips gently brush against his. You're suddenly very overwhelmed by his body heat seeping through your clothes, his relaxed puffs of breath on your face, his warm skin under your fingertips. You're almost painfully aware of your own heartbeat, racing wildly under your ribcage. If he was awake, he'd feel it without a doubt. Your lips are lingering on his, and you're doing your damnest to keep your composure. Your breathing is now shallow and fast despite your best efforts, your brow is furrowed tight and a drop of sweat is insistently making its way down the back of your neck. You lean in for a second kiss, this time with the courage to press a bit more against him. You take the time to keep the kisses slow and sweet, savoring the texture as you languidly massage his lips with your own. You swallow thickly to stifle a moan that tries to break free when you grind your hips down on his, the delicious friction making your thighs tremble, and you have to consciously slow yourself down to keep balancing on that sweet edge of too much and not enough.

Despite your best efforts, by this point, any intentions of “keeping things civil and careful” are gleefully forgotten and tossed, and it's up to anyone's interpretations to decide how “civil” it is to get worked up over petting your sleeping brother. Those kinds of thoughts are overridden by your heady arousal, the need to feel his body on yours, and you adjust your position so that you're effectively lying on top of him with your full weight down. You align your thighs to fit neatly between his, and you keep slowly and steadily grinding your clothed cock against him. You take his hands, lacing your fingers together, and press him into the mattress as you kiss him once again, this time with determination. You're short of breath as you lick his lips, you can feel the moisture of your own quick breaths and the warmth of his slow ones. Through sheer willpower you manage to slow yourself down just enough to gently suck on his lower lip, before you ease his jaw open with your thumb and slip your tongue into his mouth. It's... exactly how you'd expect kissing a sleeping person to feel like, realistically speaking, his tongue obviously won't move to touch yours, he is completely still despite you licking his teeth and feeling his tongue. That thing about control crosses your thoughts again briefly, and it's clear you get some flavor of satisfaction from him being completely at your mercy.

Bro always taught you so well, trained you so thoroughly. A part of you morbidly _wishes_ he'd see what he'd managed to teach you. You could do whatever to Dirk, really, and that's what makes all this so exciting. He'll have to accept anything you'll offer him.

You could do nothing to Bro, but this way, you can do _anything_ to _him._

An apple doesn't fall far from it's tree, apparently, but now the time is less for deep, psychological ponderings and more for planting your lips on Dirk's neck and suckling on the soft skin, stopping only briefly to feel his pulse fluttering softly against your lips. After a minute of unhurriedly worrying the skin of his neck with your tongue and lips you let go with a pop and smooth over the wet, reddening spot with your thumb, as if verifying the mark you left. A beautiful bruise will bloom, you're sure. You lick generously over his collarbone, eagerly pulling the strap of his tank top to the side.

_“You're so beautiful,”_ is a thought that races rapidly through your hazed mind as you move up again to pepper his cheeks with frantic, light kisses, and you almost say it out loud, desperately hushed, barely controlled frenzy whirring inside you.

“You belong to me,” you mouth against his ear, and a broken quiver escapes your throat as you bury your nose into the hair behind his ear and take a deep breath in, his scent flooding your senses. It's a damn near miracle you don't come in your pants right then and there, because you are so goddamn close that it's getting harder by the second to keep your dick to yourself. But. You want this to last. You want to indulge in this, in _him_ , for as long as your body will allow you to do. You need this, you need him. You need this because he's _Bro_ , but really he's not, he's the same age as you, he's your twin, and he's so alluring and perfect, so delicately captivating in his unconsciousness. You need to have this moment of command.

You let go of his hands finally and scoot back a little bit. You press you ear against his chest and listen to the calm rhythm of his heart, what a contrast compared to yours. You're breathless and burning. You're so close to tipping over the edge that you need to take a moment to cool down, though your success is debatable. It takes a few strained and careful deep breaths before you feel less dazed and have the courage to move again without running the risk of finishing too early to your liking.

You prop yourself up once again, ready to get drunk on him once more. You move your face close to his armpit almost hesitantly, and inhale experimentally. Your heart jumps and if your face was flushed before, now your skin must be radiating heat. He smells _so damn good_ , so exceptionally delicious. He's not pungent at all, just pleasantly salty. To you, his scent is irresistible, you smell his warmth and clean after-shower sweat and his natural scent mixes with the smell of the fabric softener so well and you're breathing in again, pressing your nose snug against his underarm. You sigh with a shudder as the glowing embers of lust pop and spark in your gut, you're utterly and completely weak for the perfect scent of your twin brother, you could suffocate here and die happy. Even the short, blonde hair covering his underarms is adorable.

You're so intoxicated that your arms almost give in as you sit up, and your fingers tremble when your finally, _finally_ start ridding yourself of your pants. Your eyes are fixated on his lips, enticingly parted, revealing a sliver of white teeth. His serene expression, neither smiling or frowning, simply tranquil and dreaming, excites you to no end. Your pants are dropped to the floor with a soft thud, belt clinking as it meets the carpet. You lift his arms out of the way as you straddle his chest, your hard and leaking cock bobbing in front of his mouth. You place a hand behind his neck and gently tilt his head forwards. You take your aching dick and drag the swollen head over his lips, groaning deep in your chest. Your eyes are watering because you're so eager to stick your dick into your sleeping brother's mouth. Whatever gods you might be offering prayers to seem to be supremely in your favor as you once again open his mouth with the help of your thumb and then slowly, _slowly_ , feed him your cock. And he is as undisturbed as ever. _God_ his mouth is so fucking _hot_ and he's so damn perfect, he's so good and you're so hard and you push _deeper_. His tongue is pleasantly soft against the underside of your cock and goddamn if he doesn't look at least ten times more marvelous with his mouth stuffed than without. You find a comfortable rhythm to rock your hips to, and you make sure Dirk can breathe between your thrusts. Gradually and carefully, in and out, each time a little bit deeper until you're practically pressing his nose into your pubic hair. The wet and sticky sounds from you using his mouth are so obscene, and it's downright pornographic how his lips stretch around your dick. It's lewd how willing he _looks_ , your cock slipping in and out of his mouth with ease. And it's disgraceful how _shamelessly_ you use him. Christ, if only you could make him suck on you, even a little. And you visualize how exquisite it would be to have him look at you as he'd obediently take your dick, those orange eyes gleaming brightly with gratitude. Impossibilities aside, it doesn't really take long until you're at your climax, and you hastily pull out and let thick strings of white fall on his freckled face. The last lascivious sight for the night, your sperm on Dirk's unconscious face, slowly dripping down his cheek and lips. You take a moment to bask in the sweet afterglow, steadying your breathing and admiring your brother's unrivaled beauty. You got him. _He doesn't know it_ , but you fucking got him. After you come down from your post-orgasm high, reality hits and it occurs to you that you can't exactly leave his face like that, no matter how cute your jizz looks on his nose. You reach for the night stand drawer, and surely enough, you find a box of tissues. You wipe down his face and stuff the used tissue in your pocket when you get off his bed and pull your pants back on (you wouldn't want him finding wank tissues he didn't personally produce).

You leave quietly and swiftly and fucking pray he never finds out. You don't want to mess up this nice thing called “being brothers” that you got going on.

_But you needed to know what it felt like._

_Needed to know what it is like to be in control._

_Of **him** , specifically._

You want him to be a good brother to you and you're more than willing to return the favor, he was so eager to meet you, more so than you were to meet him. So maybe you can actually make this work, this whole “being family” thing.

Too bad you also _want_ him, just _him_ because he is your _brother_ and you're mixing up familial love and lust, but you love him.

And if Bro hated you, maybe _he_ won't.

And if Bro didn't love you, maybe _he_ will.


End file.
